Chaste Conviction
by Firisu
Summary: AU. Grimmjow is released from prison, again. And waiting for him, like always, is his long-term fiancée, Rukia. As they spend New Year's Eve together, issues are raised on how much longer they can keep this up. GrimmRuki, one-shot.


**A/N: What can I say? ****Fanfiction has corrupted me into believing GrimmRuki is virtually the hottest crack pairing there is out there in the Bleach-verse, and so I wanted to write something for it before '09 ends.**

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**Chaste ****Conviction**

The drizzling snow steadily paints the town of Karakura a pure, elegant white as a young woman detachedly makes her way through the light blizzard, clad in a short, black skirt, hooded jacket, and thick woollen stockings. Her name is Kuchiki Rukia; it's New Year's Eve, and instead of spending a quiet day with family, she's on her way to the local prison.

The demoralising institution doesn't intimidate her anymore. She walks right up to the gates and passes inspection by the guards. One of them she recognises as none other than Abarai Renji. He's seen her here on several occasions in the past—on her numerous visits and pick-up dates—and always gives her this look that begs to ask, _Why do you keep coming back for him?_ Aloud, though, he simply gives her a nod and a warning: "Be careful."

Rukia understands his concern but deems it unnecessary. She refuses to feel the need to be careful around her own fiancé. She steps past the gates without fear, all too used to it by now, and strolls listlessly through the concrete quad, wondering which direction her infamous bad boy will appear from this time.

"Rukia."

As soon as she hears that familiar, gruff voice, she turns to its source, and she smiles. "Hey, you."

The subject of her elation comes up to her and claims her lips in an eager kiss before pulling back and looking her over. He smirks. "Still drop-dead gorgeous, I see."

Someone clears their throat behind them, and they both turn to see one of the guards walking up towards where they stand. "Grimmjow Jaegerjaques," the pallid man greets, monotonous and formal.

Grimmjow holds back a snicker. "Oh, it's just you," he says, "Ulquiorra."

The guard, Ulquiorra Cifer, looks to Rukia, then asks Grimmjow cryptically, "Your sister?"

Grimmjow wraps an arm around her and corrects, "Fiancée."

Ulquiorra's entire self radiates doubt, but he doesn't inquire any further. "I suppose you have a warm bed to go home to, then," he states instead. He flashes Rukia a quick look of what seems to be pity before turning back to the criminal and telling him, "I will hope not to see your face around here again anytime soon."

They all know the chances of that are slim.

"Well then," Ulquiorra says after a moment of silence. "You should go home and enjoy your New Year's Eve as a free man."

Grimmjow pretends to tip an invisible hat to him. "Thank you, good sir," he answers back mockingly. "I'll be on my way now."

With that, he takes his leave, his girl still securely in his grasp.

Halfway to the gates, he presses a kiss to the top of her head, and mumbles, "I've missed you."

She leans closer into his rock-hard chest and answers, "I know. I've missed you, too." She takes a glance around herself then, seeing what she always does when she comes to take her fiancé home, time after time.

She sees the prisoners in the fenced-off courtyard, a fair distance away, bringing their activities to a standstill to stop and stare at her and Grimmjow. From time to time, the couple walks close enough to read their faces. Some are envious and some are pure spiteful. Rukia does her best to ignore them, but she worries Grimmjow may suffer the repercussions during his next stay. Then she remembers—Grimmjow is strong. If anything, the prisoners are the ones afraid of _him_. She need not worry about Grimmjow being able to protect himself, and she thinks that's essentially what's kept them together for so long.

Back to the present, Rukia turns to the view ahead and what greets her is another all-too-familiar sight. The guards at the gate are staring, but also trying to look like they're not. Rukia rolls her eyes. So they're still struggling to figure out what she sees in the man walking beside her. She never bothers to explain, and they never ask, anyway. If they were to enquire, though, she would tell them that they don't know Grimmjow like she does. She would tell them he's not bad; he's just impulsive and stupid and very, very stubborn.

"Hey, which way?" the man in question asks. Rukia realises they've already passed the gates and are out of the prison by now—she's normally a very observant person, but being around him tends to lure her into lowering her guard.

She points straight ahead and replies, amazed, "You've forgotten the way home?"

He snorts, and they start walking down the sidewalk together, keeping each other warm amid a flurry of snow. "I was just checking," he says. "You know I'm not known for good memory."

"I know; you're known as the guy who never learns his lesson, who's always picking a fight."

"To who?" he challenges.

"Well…" She begins to list off on her fingers. "To the judge, to the guards, to your cellmates…"

"But, you know, the thing is," he interjects, "none of them mean a thing to me. As long as you know the truth, I don't give a damn what they think."

She grins, and they wind up the rest of their journey in silence.

The apartment is warm and bright when they arrive, a vast contrast to the conditions outside and a vast improvement to the conditions in Grimmjow's jail cell. Grimmjow takes it all in, glad to be home again. The first thing Rukia does is run him a nice, warm bath. As they wait for it to be ready, she makes them some hot coffee, too, and they sit down at the table to drink.

"What was it like this time?" she asks. He shrugs, which is the norm.

"Same old, same old," he reports. She nods, and then sends him off to his bath.

That's all they plan to say on the matter, until next time, at least. After his first few times in the slammer, Rukia remembers making him tell her every single detail about his stay, but it seemed to irritate him to do that—and after a while, Rukia found that the stories were always more or less the same, anyway—so she stopped, and now she only asks for a general report unless there's anything more to add.

She pushes herself up from the kitchen table now and busies herself with getting dinner prepared. Since it's New Year's Eve, she's made them soba noodles. They're supposed to grant the consumer long life, apparently.

"Damn, it's good to be home." Rukia turns from the stove to see Grimmjow in the doorway, a white towel wrapped around his waist and his blue hair dripping bathwater.

"Go get dry and changed," she orders, turning back to the pot. "I don't want my floor getting wet."

He snickers something about misplaced priorities under his breath, but leaves for their bedroom, nonetheless. When he comes out, he's neatly clothed in a white dress shirt and matching pants. Rukia almost laughs, because it suits him so little, but then she smiles, because it's so rarely that she gets to see him so clean and refined. "What's with all the white?" she asks, stirring the pot of half-heated noodles.

He shrugs. "Don't usually get the chance to wear this kind of thing in the slammer."

"Then maybe you should stop going back," she mutters.

He raises a brow and scoffs, "You think I _like_ it there?"

She turns from the stove, at her wit's end. "I don't know, Grimmjow. Do you? You go back so often, anyone would wonder, do you actually _enjoy_ getting arrested?"

"You're being ridiculous."

She turns back and says, "Our wedding's in April. Will you be able to make it? Or are we going to have to postpone it again because it conflicts with your plans in solitary confinement?"

"I don't have to listen to this…" He turns his back and walks, away from her, into the hall leading to their bedroom.

"Fine. Walk away. You've never considered us worth fighting for, have you?"

She hears his footsteps take a turn and storm back into the kitchen. "What did you say?"

She doesn't answer, continues stirring.

"Look," he says, "I get pissed, I get into fights, and I get arrested. What do you want me to say?"

"Stop making it sound like there's nothing you can do about it."

"Well, I—"

"No. Don't give me that shit," she says. "I'm not asking you to change who you are; I'm just asking you to be a little more careful about who you decide to piss off."

"You know I've tried." His voice comes out so low that it almost sounds like he's sulking.

It's ridiculous, because whenever he gets like that, Rukia feels like she's the bad guy. But she knows she's not. She's done nothing wrong; all she did was fall in love. Is that such a crime?

"Grimmjow," she stresses now, long since sick and tired of going around in constant circles on this very issue, "I need you to listen to me."

He opens his mouth but she interrupts before he can speak. "I know, you've tried, but you're going to have to try _harder_. Damn it, Grimmjow, it shouldn't be my job to teach you about what's wrong and right."

"You're not my mother," he chips in.

"That's right; you _killed_ your mother."

"Now _that_ was an accident."

Yes, Rukia knows; she remembers. That's how they met; she was on the jury and he was pleading his case. "Okay, so that time it was an accident. But what about the next fifty times, huh?"

"Six," he reminds her. "Thirteen if you count the times I didn't get caught. _But_, I've never _killed _anyone."

"Right. You just beat the living shit out of them and hope they're too out of it to press charges." She stops stirring for the moment and massages her temples with her fists. "I can't…" She chokes up, takes a breath, and then attempts to continue. "I can't…"

"You can't what? Huh?" He steps closer and closer until he's right behind her, blanketing her small form in his shadow. He exhales patiently, not quite a sigh, and says, "I never asked you to do anything for me. You can leave whenever the hell you want."

She counters the sting of his words by facing him and asking, brows raised, "Do you want me to leave?"

He doesn't answer the question directly, which she makes sure to take note of. "I'm just saying," he replies, "you're free to leave any time, any day. Don't let me stop you."

She turns away, mutters, "Maybe I will," and stomps to the front door. She looks to him to say, "Maybe I'll go spend my New Year's with someone who actually gives a damn," and then she's gone, the thud of a slamming door left resonating through the apartment. Grimmjow is left frozen in the kitchen.

"Damn it," he mutters. He internally debates it over with himself, pondering his options, and then, after a good three minutes, he's out the door and in the hall. Before he can launch into a full-blown search, however, he finds exactly what he's looking for, sitting against the wall next to their front door.

She looks up, her eyes a blank canvas, her knees drawn up against her chest. And then, suddenly, she's hoisted up in his arms, one burly limb beneath her knees, the other supporting her back.

"Come with me," he says, oddly soft and gentle.

He takes her back inside, kicking the door closed behind them, and heads for their room. "Wait," Rukia instructs as they pass the kitchen. She jumps down from Grimmjow's hold and moves to the stove.

"Way to kill the mood," he grumbles, following her steps to stand beside her.

There's a click, followed by the flame beneath the pot going out. "Well, I'm sorry," she says, "but I think the mood would've been ruined more if I'd left this on and the building caught fire."

"Whatever. You done?"

"Yep. And so is dinner."

"Forget that; it can wait." He turns her to face him, holds his thumb underneath her chin, raises it, and leans down to move his lips against hers, deliberate and slow. Rukia doesn't have the heart to pull away. Instead, she takes their first break for breath to make her protest.

"The noodles are hot _now_."

"Oh, yeah? Well, so am I." He runs his lips down her neck, and she feels her knees getting weak. It's been so long—too long—since he's been here to do this with her. She relents.

"Maybe just… a few minutes…" She's losing the ability of coherent speech as she feels his hand trail up her leg and beneath her skirt. She loops her arms around his neck to keep from falling, and then hoists herself up so that her legs are tightly wrapped around his hips, grinding herself against him. He doesn't seem to have any complaints.

Actually, just one. "Should we take this to the bedroom?"

She thinks the answer to that is obvious, and just answering him with a simple "yes" isn't at all fun, so she locks their lips in a long, heated kiss, and nods, just slightly, so that he can feel it in the motion of her jaw. Her legs are a little occupied at present so Grimmjow is left to ensure them both the journey down the hall and into the room they call theirs. It's a path he's quite familiar with, and sooner than one would expect, he's leaning over their bed, and then, as Rukia's back hits the mattress, he shuffles atop and shifts them into a position they've both sorely missed and ached for in the past several months.

They definitely take more than 'just a few minutes,' as Rukia agreed to. But she's too preoccupied by now to really care or notice. When it's over, she still doesn't want to move from the clutches of satisfaction and delight. She has Grimmjow hold her by the waist and she seizes his arms in return, both lying on their sides and watching each other with renewed appreciation of what they have—what's always taken away and then earned back again.

"I'm tired of missing this," she tells him.

"I know." He tries to loosen her hold on him. She holds on tighter.

"I want us to have a future," she says, "but that can't happen if you're never here with me in the present."

"I'm here now," he points out.

"Yes, but for how long?" She lowers her voice to a pained, almost desperate whisper. "I can't keep waiting forever, you know."

"I know."

She wonders, _Do you really?_ She wonders if he really knows how much it pains her to have him get taken away, time and time again, never quite knowing when he'll go or when he'll be back again. She wonders if he has imagined the future like she has—one where he's always around, every day of the year, and she doesn't have to worry about police coming to her door at three in the morning or having to attend court hearings or picking him up from prison. She wonders if he realises the day will come, eventually, when she will get tired of waiting for that future—waiting for him.

But, for now, she's welcomed him back again and given him another chance. She just hopes it lasts—if not this time, then the next. She hasn't set a limit on how much time she'll give him, but she figures she'll just _know_ when enough is enough.

She makes it her New Year's resolution to keep Grimmjow out of trouble. It's a long shot, she knows, but it's all she would ever want and wish for. She decides she'll even kick his butt into gear herself if need be.

She hopes it will be enough.

The couple eventually gets around to having dinner, though much later than they planned. Rukia decides to serve the noodles cold, not in the mood to work the stove and heat them again. They eat their meals on the couch in front of the TV, because it beats having to make conversation, and that's where they eventually fall asleep, too, a brilliant display of fireworks still playing on the screen three feet away as a pair of male announcers count down the seconds to midnight.

It's the beginning of a brand new year, and Rukia spends it lying blissfully in the arms of the man she loves.

She hopes that's the way the year will end, too.

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**A/N: ****Okay, here is my New Year's resolution for 2010: to review every fanfiction that I read on this site henceforth. The only exceptions will be stories written by review whores who say, "I won't update until I get [a certain number of] reviews," (I outright refuse to review those stories) and ones written so badly that you can tell the author didn't even try. God, I'm already making excuses for myself. This is probably going to turn out like the New Year's resolution I made in Sixth Grade when I said I would read the entire dictionary (I never got past the As). Oh well; worth a shot. ****Happy New Year's Eve, everyone~**


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